


The Memories, The Dreams, and Nen Yim

by Astronut



Series: CrackShips [3]
Category: Star Wars Legends: New Jedi Order Series - Various Authors
Genre: Crack, Crack Pairing Roulette, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:13:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23723662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astronut/pseuds/Astronut
Summary: Nen Yim shapes her future.Post Unifying Force
Relationships: Nen Yim/Thracken Sal-Solo
Series: CrackShips [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1708726
Kudos: 3





	The Memories, The Dreams, and Nen Yim

**Author's Note:**

> Please do not repost without permission.

The Memories, the Dreams, and Nen Yim

Long fingers manipulate a tiny pipette. A single cell of life, a microscopically small piece of humanity clings to the tip and then is released. The cell slides into place, joining its brethren amongst the winding coils of fine wire and silicate. Once, Nen Yim would have found this fusion of glorious life and hideous machination an affront to the gods. But there are no gods. There is no Nen Yim. At least, not as she was. 

The Nen Yim who sits before her workbench considers herself to be two years old. But perhaps it is just as reasonable to say she is three and sixty _humack cora_. Maybe even calling her twenty years old would be accurate. In actuality, her mind is some combination, neither completely measured in _humack cora_ or years but in some unholy union of the two, just like the mess of flesh and metal laying before her. For now, she is content to be two years old. It is easier this way. 

She picks up the tray and sets it inside the cryochamber next to the other odds and ends of her project. The metal of the tray cools quickly, the searing cold biting at her fingertips. The pain awakes something in her, a sense of pleasure, of obligation, of cleansing, but she ignores the sensation and releases the tray before the cold destroys the flesh of her fingers. Once they were a source of pride, those shaper’s hands, but now she feels only revulsion when she studies them. Still, it is better to make use of such hideous tools than to destroy them so wantonly. 

The door hisses open and Nen find herself in the company of yet another hideous tool. The poisonous spine on her finger twitches and her hand reaches for a cylinder that should have been hanging from her belt. That has never hung from her belt. Despite her instincts to attack and defend, Nen surrenders to his warm embrace. She can feel her sentient garment taste his aging form, relaying the exact salt content of the cloying, sweaty scent that clings to him. He has been nervous and stressed but the signs of fear are already fading. Their bitter taste are already being replaced by the riotous, disturbing, but oh so sweet tangle of pheromones and testosterone. 

He breaks the embrace first, stepping back and allowing a hand to caress scarred ridge along her temple that is a reminder of her mother’s gift of life reborn. “How is my tame little Vong today,” he murmurs in her ear. His voice is sarcastic and biting, but she does not take offense. It would be of no use. 

“I am well. No headaches today, at least the physical sort.” Sal-Solo shows no cheer at this sign of recovery. His eyes merely register annoyance until she continues her report. “The cloned tissue is taking to the matrix well. A little too well, I had a hard time performing the Protocol before mitosis.” 

“But you succeeded?” 

She nods and he enfolds her once again in his arms, his eyes and body radiating pleasure. This time, it is she that extends a tentative hand and gently traces the jaw line beneath the silver beard. It is forbidden to touch the head in her domain, mainly out of respect for the tentacled headdress often imbedded in the scalps of shapers such as herself. This inhibition is overridden by something stronger, something that dances along the surface of her mind as she draws his lips closer to her own. The not-quite-memories of a small, dark, cold locker and the gentle curve of that jaw and those lips flood her mind. 

But that jaw had no coarse hair, only downy fuzz. Those lips did not devour, but cherished. And those eyes, those ice blue chips, what she would give to have those eyes gaze lovingly at her instead of these hard brown rocks. Lost in the confusion of her mind, she withdraws from the kiss. 

Sal-Solo does not sense her confusion and ignores her signs of discontent. Instead, he boasts and brags of today’s minor victories in the ongoing battle to raise Corellia from the ashes of the Yuuzhan Vong War. As he struts about, Nen tries to sort memory from dream and dream from reality. She has struggled with this differentiation ever since that day on Zonama Sekot when Nom Anor tried to bash in her head. Or perhaps he had succeeded. 

Nen could remember the pain and the flood of nothingness. She could remember the forgiveness of the _Jeedai_ but she could also remember granting forgiveness. Above all, she could remember the welcoming embrace as Mother Sekot surrounded her with the energy of the living and birthed her once more. 

Sal-Solo departs, stealing one more kiss and alluding to his return to her bed tonight with a lustful leer. She ignores him, unable to decide if his remarks dismay or excite her. Sal-Solo occupied the contested grey space in her thoughts. The Vong memories had no use for a foul infidel, something that dream memories agreed with, for reasons all their own. But Nen Yim, all of two years old, found his attentions flattering and ached for his touch and approval. And somewhere, the dream memories cried out that this was not the one, just a mere shadow of a far greater man. But for now he was a means to an end, an escape, a home. 

Nen Yim returned to her work, distributing cell packets and growing more. The electrical interfaces that Sal-Solo had demanded marred her creation, but she continued to include them to please him. In her work, she found satisfaction. She found the tentative peace between memory, reality, and dream. The Vong shaper rejoiced in the manipulation of flesh. The memory dreams, drawn by Mother Sekot from the flesh of forgiveness, felt content to wait, knowing that with time some of those dreams would become reality once more. Nen Yim felt content as she was needed, wanted, and loved. And all three of them eagerly awaited the day when this mass of flesh and machine could once more be call Anakin Solo. The day where the Vong shaper would have her redemption, the memory dreams would solidify into reality, and Nen Yim would finally get to make a few memories for herself. 


End file.
